At last they came to the galleries above, to the
collection of the Della Robbias, and Mrs. Cricklander rhapsodized over
them, mixing them up with delightful unconcern. They were all just bits
of cheap-looking crockery to her eye, and it was impossibly difficult to
distinguish which was Luca's, Andrea's, or Giovanni's; and, security
having made her careless, she committed several blunders.
John Derringham laid no pitfalls for her--indeed, he helped her out when
he could. To-day each new discovery no longer made him smile with bitter
cynicism, he was only filled with a sense of discomfort and regret.
He stopped in front of Andrea's masterpiece, the tender young Madonna.
Something in the expression of the face made him think of Halcyone,
although the types of the two were entirely different; and Cecilia
Cricklander, watching, saw a look of deep pain grow in his eyes.
"I wish to goodness he would get well and be human and masterful and
brilliant, as he used to be," she thought. "I am thoroughly tired out,
trying to cope with him. He is no more use now than a bump on a log.
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